


Open Spaces

by dimeliora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Claustrophobia, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:09:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimeliora/pseuds/dimeliora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two things Dean hates more than words can describe: witches, and Sam being broken. This case seems to have both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> Due to an extreme attack of real life this is very late, and I apologize heartily.

**Title:** Open Spaces  
 **Author:** dimeliora  
 **Wordcount:** 4,281  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Pairing(s):** Dean/Sam  
 **Warning(s):** PTSD and panic attacks (highlight to reveal) claustrophobia   
**Beta(s):** Flying solo on this one. Proceed at your own risk.  
 **Prompt(s):** Written for the [](http://smpc.livejournal.com/profile)[**smpc**](http://smpc.livejournal.com/) and the amazing [](http://ashtraythief.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://ashtraythief.livejournal.com/)**ashtraythief** 's birthday. Angsty, smutty, Wincest.  
 **Notes:** Due to an extreme attack of real life this is very late, and I apologize heartily.  
 **Disclaimer:** I don't own what I built on, but I do own what I built.  
 **Summary:** There are two things Dean hates more than words can describe: witches, and Sam being broken. This case seems to have both.

  
 Sam has never liked clowns, and Dean honestly puts it off on that and turns away from the idea of being concerned. After all, they’ve got to find out why the thirty-third floor of the Spellman Building is suddenly gaining a reputation for violent accidents. The only thing that’s sent up a red flag so far are the clown sightings, and from the way Sam’s hands jitter next to his thighs he’s taking that part to heart.

The elevator is slower than he’d thought it would be. Dean vaguely remembers his time as Dean Smith, and the elevators were much faster in their building. Certainly more efficient. How do the building’s tenants not complain about this?

When the ride is finally over Sam shoots out of the elevator and goes into robotic efficiency mode, which considering their most recent past is probably not the greatest of descriptors. Still, there’s no other way to put it.

Sam interviews witnesses with no visible sign of his distress. His face is set into the series of emotionally manipulative masks he has perfected over the years. He is sweet and a little naïve to the old secretary, submissively masculine to the security guard, and inoffensively sexual with the lunch cart woman.

As a result they learn that the first two victims were well-known lotharios, that the old woman is a replacement for a young secretary that took off with no notice a year ago, and that there’s an event planning group on this floor that regularly hires a drunk clown.

Dean expects his brother to relax when he learns that the clown has no evil context at all, other than potentially ruining a kid’s birthday party, but once they get back on the elevator Sam’s hands start up that nervous jiggling again and his face is locked down so tight it resembles a nun’s asshole.

He shares the observation and Sam turns to glare at him when there’s a lurch, a noise, and the elevator stops completely as the lights flicker and then change to emergency lighting. Dean turns to Sam to make a joke, but his brother is standing in the center of the elevator with his previously jittering hands held out in front of him perfectly still.

It’s a warding gesture, something old and instinctive, and Dean knows it from when Sam was little and thought that he could hold off the monsters in movies with the right posture. Dean used to make fun of Sam even as he’d sling an arm around his little brother and pull him in tight.

Nostalgia is so strong and bittersweet that Dean almost does that now, but Sam wouldn’t want that. He knows Sam doesn’t want to be touched, knows it in his bones, but he doesn’t know _why_ , and that just won’t do. Dean is supposed to know all the things that scare his brother so that he can end them or exploit them.

Those are the rules.

“Sam, what’s-“

His brother’s phone is out before he can finish, Sam tapping calmly at the screen before lifting it to his ear and looking into some middle distance with that tightly controlled expression still obvious on his face.

“Yes, hello, this is Agent Flint and my partner and I are in the elevator and it’s stopped. Five minutes? No, that’s fine, just hurry because we have an investigation to get on with.”

Sam hangs up, drops the phone into his pocket, and then goes stock still again.

“Ok, Sam you wanna tell me what’s-“

“Shut. Up. Dean.” Sam’s hands are back to jittering, legs moving restlessly as he tries to stay in one place, and as Dean watches his brother starts to visibly shrink. “Shut up.”

“Hey, I’m just trying-“

That’s when Sam starts screaming. Dean knows all of Sam’s screams, has heard each them over the years, but this is something new and infinitely more frightening. It’s weary, an obligatory sound offered with no facial expression and no body language beyond the moving hands and twitching leg muscles. Sam is locked into place, acting like he’s tied down when he’s standing, and his voice is a siren with no context or explanation.

Distantly he can hear the pounding of fists on the elevator’s metal door, someone shouting, but here and now all that matters is getting Sam to breathe. His brother’s face is a mottled red, getting progressively more colorful as his chest hitches in short bursts and his hands keep twisting against nothing.

Then the doors open, Dean’s got Sam’s biceps in a death grip, and his brother knocks him down and head-butts a rescuer before pulling himself up and out of the stalled elevator.

Once he’s breathing and has apologized Sam takes the stairs down without further comment.

 

 

 

\----

 

 

Now it’s between them. Sam’s reaction and Dean’s concern, and it manifests in the little things that can’t be explained. The first day after the incident Dean goes out to get Sam the girly coffee he still likes, and after that Sam starts setting his phone alarm so that he’s always up before Dean and in charge of coffee.

Dean doesn’t try to take over the research, but he does sneak the list of books Sam needs out of his brother’s jacket pocket and then manages to find all of them. Sam eyes the stack, and then thanks Dean calmly before leaving the room.

The next morning the Impala is detailed to Dean’s exacting, and definitely _not_ ridiculous, standards. Sam’s already gotten the coffee too, and is drinking his caffeine desperately as he scans old books.

He’s not sure what pisses him off more, that Sam won’t tell him what’s wrong, or that Sam insists on being _more helpful_ than Dean can be.

“Could you please stop it?”

Sam looks up from the book, eyes wide and purposefully innocent.

“You don’t want me to figure out how to save these people? Dean, I know you hate the 9-5 life, but that’s a little extreme.”

Dean will be the first to admit that his response is not exactly mature. Still, purple nurples never go out of fashion and Sam surges up sucking on his own finger and goes for Dean’s ear like a man possessed. The kid may be bigger and a bit stronger, but Dean is always going to come out on top when these fights break out. Big brother prerogative.

And he does. End up on top. They carry the struggle through the small motel room, Sam getting noticeably hard against his thigh, and then Dean manages to twist them just right and get Sam down on the floor, half in and half out of the cramped bathroom, before thrusting against Sam.

He doesn’t mind struggling turning into sex. It’s produced some of the best fucking they’ve ever had after all. Except a few minutes in Dean realizes Sam isn’t hard anymore, and that his little brother is panting harshly in a totally un-aroused way.

It only takes a second to let go and back off. That second still seems too long, and Sam’s face is pale as his hands press flat against the floor and his legs strain in place. Struggling again. Struggling against bonds.

“Sam. _Sam_. You’re okay Sam.”

His brother blinks several times before surging up and crossing the room. He snags the keys off the nightstand and leaves without another word. It’s such a Dean thing to do that for a moment he’s too perplexed to do anything but stare at the open door.

 

 

\----

 

 

When Sam returns Dean tries to initiate conversation. He’s had three hours of Sam being gone to think of the perfect opening line.

“What the fuck is going on with you?”

Sam lifts an eyebrow and drops a bag of groceries on the table.

“We were out of food Dean. I’m sorry, did you not want dinner? I could throw out the pie.”

Dean clenches his jaw against the instinctive reaction Sam wants.

“You know what I’m talking about Sam. You’ve been off. It’s time to explain _why_ you’ve been off.”

His brother tilts his head, and then his face breaks out into a broad and beautiful smile. Dimples on display despite how dead and hollow his eyes are.

“What, earlier? I wasn’t in the mood. That happens man.”

“Goddamn it Sam you _were_ in the mood. I _felt_ your mood man. If there’s something going on you have to tell me.”

Sam blows out a breath and pushes his hair back from his face. Dean watches as his brother starts laying out food, hands busy and head down.

“Like you’ve explained why you always get pissy when I wear white? Why you destroyed all my shirts that one time?”

“I – what? I do not get _pissy_. Little girls get _pissy_. Old men get _pissy_. I react appropriately when you wear shit that makes you look like some douche from the _Jersey Shore_. You’re not built for – hey, wait. Wait, that’s not the point. The point is, you had that freakout the other day and –“

“Dean.” Sam wasn’t looking up, hands still busy setting up dinner, but his voice is urgent and insistent. “I’m fine. I wasn’t then, but I’m fine now. Understand?”

And yeah, academically he does understand. That doesn’t change the fact that this is Sam, and he’s not allowed to be intermittently okay unless Dean is the one causing the not so fine moments.

Of course, he can’t say that because it breaks the carefully placed code they have, and Sam might ask about the stupid shirts again.

“Don’t think buying me pie is going to get you out of this.” He pops open a container and his mouth floods with saliva as the smell of an overly generous helping of veal parmigiana hits him. “Or Italian. I cannot be bought with food Sam.”

“I also got you cannolis.”

Well, maybe he can be _rented_ for food.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Not a ghost, not a ghost, _not a ghost_. Dean pants as he runs through the building, plants his hands on a desktop and swings over it before stumbling back to his feet on the other side. Sam is breathing normally, the bastard, but he’s fallen a bit behind. Dean thinks it’s Sam’s habit of looking back, and he’ll point out to Sam later that they’re not women in a horror movie and once they knew what was chasing them that was good enough.

The problem with big city cases is anonymity. In a small town they can ask _one person_ for details on several people and get their entire life histories and sometimes what they ate for lunch. In big cities the reports are conflicting, missing details, and often full of wild speculation. The violent accidents? Suicides. Brilliantly executed and induced suicides.

Dean fumbles in his bouncing pockets, finds the right bag, and grabs Sam at the last second so that they can go skidding across the floor and slam into the janitorial closet door.

“Open it, open it, open it Sam.” He’s ripping the bag as Sam slides out the kit and goes to work on the lock. Seconds later the door is swinging open and Dean is practically hip-checking Sam through the space while he pours the salt across the doorway.

The psychopomp comes to a screaming halt, face wavering under imaginary water and translucent limbs stuttering through the air in odd time.

He shuts the door in its face and flips on the light, sagging backwards into shelves and turning to Sam.

“So, that is not – Sam?”

Unlike the last two times Sam is not clenching his hands or flexing his legs. No, his little brother is pushed into a corner, knees pulled up to his chin and chest jerking choppily as he pants through grey lips.

Dean moves in slow, hands out in a soothing manner and voice low.

“Okay Sammy, okay closed spaces. I get it now. I get it.”

His brother’s eyes are overly wide, white showing all around, and Dean smells the fear coming off of him. He takes his time, moves in so he’s close enough to touch Sam without crowding him, and thinks fast and hard.

Sam’s pants are wet. Dean almost prays that it’s the result of a spilled chemical, but he doubts it.

There’s only one thing to do. He’s got to get Sam out of here, and he can’t do that with an angry Shinigami hanging outside the door waiting to make one of them use office supplies or their own guns to end it all.

Dean eyes the wall, considers the chemicals, and then makes a split second decision. This will probably end badly. Very badly.

“Stay here. Stay here Sam. I’ll be right back.”

He throws the door open, slides down underneath the spirit and runs for the stairs at top speed. Shinigamis are powerful, but Dean knows from Dad’s notes that that kind of power has to be wielded from up close.

The thing is roaring behind him, he can feel the cold and the pull, but he studied the blue prints of the place when they first got the case and he remembers how many floors down the conjurer would have to be for maximum safe distance.

Dean turns at the third flight of stairs down and slams through the door. He hears a crash ahead of him, and feels the backlash of energy snapping as the conjurer loses their focus and the death spirit phases out. It’s perfect, he’s got this fucker cold.

Or so he has time to think before a door he wasn’t expecting opens and Dean is clothes-lined at top speed by whoever’s responsible for the whole thing. He hits the floor hard, all the breath gone out of him already and lights flashing behind his eyes when his head bounces off the hard surface.

There’s a shape, indistinct and blurry, and Dean reaches helplessly for it before the witch slides out of view entirely and he’s left on the floor gasping and in pain.

It takes forever to get up, to gingerly make his way back up the stairs and to Sam, and then he finds his brother in exactly the place he left him. Dean hooks his hands under Sam’s armpits and drags him out into the hallway and towards the elevator. It’s not gonna help matters, but he can’t carry Sam down all those stairs, and they’ve gotta get out before the witch regroups.

 

 

\----

 

 

When Sam is finally coherent they’re already forty miles away. He keeps his face turned towards the window and speaks in a harsh rasp.

“Dean? Where are we?”

He turns into a motel and parks before heading into the office to get a key. Then Dean leads Sam by gestures into the room, and his little brother takes no time at all to spot a placard that gives away their location.

“What the fuck are we doing here Dean? The case is back there. We gotta go back.”

Rage, at the uselessness of his revelation this late in the game, his inability to save Sam from this kind of bone-deep damage, and the universe in general for constantly putting them in this position translates into a roughness he doesn’t want or need.

Dean grabs Sam by the shirt and leads him into the bathroom. Watches as the tremors start.

“I called someone else and gave them everything we had. He’s gonna give us updates. Why the _fuck_ didn’t you tell me Sam? You coulda gotten killed! Panicking like that in the middle of a case is how you get ganked.”

 Sam’s shaking, eyes darting around the room, and Dean pushes the shower curtain open and turns on the spray before pointing into the water.

“Wash. When you get out I’ll have dinner and then you’re fucking going to bed. We’re not taking anything else until we figure this out.”

He pushes past Sam, storms out of the room, and realizes halfway through waiting on their to-go order that he has no idea how to fix this one, and he’s probably only made it worse.

 

\----

 

 

Sam is silent for days. At first Dean doesn’t try to break it. He lets Sam work things out in his head as he flips through page after page on the internet about PTSD and triggers.

When he tries to talk though Sam’s eyes are wary, cagy, and Dean hates that more than anything. A lot of the sites disagree on approaches. Some think exposure is the best way, others argue for therapy and medication, and all of it sounds like a load of tripe. Dean’s not equipped for this. His coping mechanism is shutting down, burying shit as deep as possible, and it’s never been an issue until now.

He could hand Sam a whiskey bottle and tell him to man up like their dad, but the thought of it makes him sick to his stomach.

Instead Dean loads Sam into the car after a week and a half of silence and drives into the middle of an open field. They sit in silence, the engine ticking as it cools, and Sam looks around the huge empty space before visibly gearing up for a fight.

“Dean I-“

“Why not in the car?”

Sam freezes, eyes wide, and then shrugs helplessly.

“The car is – I just – It’s not the same. The Impala is home. It’s you.”

Dean rubs at his face for a moment and considers that. It’s him. Okay. Okay, he can work with that.

He takes Sam’s hand and leads him out into the open field. Grain waves around them, birds chirp off in the distance, and the sun beats down harsh and hard as Dean leads Sam back to the trunk and pulls him in close. Traps him between the metal and his body.

Sam’s tight, a trembling line of tension, and Dean leans in slow and gentle before placing his lips to Sam’s ear.

“Eyes open Sam. Look around. It’s just me and all this space.”

His brother stops shaking, and when Dean leans back to press his lips against Sam’s he sees the way his little brother’s face has twisted in thought.

“Yeah, that’s right, eyes open. Take it in.”

Dean drags his tongue along Sam’s lips, dips in deep and keeps his eyes open. Focuses on the way Sam’s eyes shift colors, darken and gain more blue in the light, and his hands shake as he runs them through Dean’s hair and down his sides.

He breaks the kiss, drags his mouth along Sam’s jaw and nips lightly at the joint before sucking on the pulse point there. Sam moans and sags back against the trunk.

Sam’s skin is salty, delicious as always, but his heart is beating too rapidly and his body is filled with tiny tremors as Dean pulls at the hem of Sam’s shirt and then strips it up and off.

“I got you Sammy.” He licks his way down Sam’s neck, bites the spot right above Sam’s nipple and pops the buckle on his belt before kicking his shoes off.

Sam’s getting into it. His body is still shaking, fine tremors underneath the skin that Dean can feel all too well, but he’s not trying to run and his arousal is evident through his jeans. Dean drops his own pants and strips his shirt off before working on Sam’s.

“Pants off sweetheart. Need you naked for this.”

His brother nods, breath hissing sharp as Dean’s teeth scrape at the v-cut of muscle and then he laves the spot before licking into Sam’s navel.

Big hands fumble with the belt, and then Sam’s dropping his pants and leaning back fully on the steel of the Impala as Dean takes his brother’s hard cock in his mouth and dips down, tongue swirling around the head and then pressing firmly against the vein as he slides down.

Sam’s grabbing at the trunk with one hand, Dean’s hair with the other, and his hips buck when Dean looks up and makes eye contact. His brother is obeying for once, eyes wide open and dark with lust as Dean bobs along the length of his dick.

He gathers spit with his fingers, mouth moving rhythmically to distract Sam as he wets his fingers as best he can and then drags the tips along Sam’s thigh and back over the curve of his ass.

“Dean, what, oh fuck.” Sam’s breath is coming in sharp gasps, arousal instead of panic, and Dean slides both fingers between Sam’s cheeks and circles his tight rim for a moment before sliding one finger in slow and smooth.

It’s been too long since they did this, and Dean has to break the blowjob off before Sam is properly stretched because he can feel how close to coming Sam is. Mouth full of the taste of Sam’s salty precome he turns his brother around and then dips the two fingers back in.

“Keep your eyes open Sam. I want you to talk to me. Tell me what you’re seeing and what you’re feeling.”

He slips his tongue along the curve of Sam’s left ass cheek, bites softly, and then uses his free hand to pull Sam’s cheeks apart so he can get in and lick at where his fingers are working.

“I – Dean damn it – I see a field. I see a big wheat field and – oh fuck I feel your tongue. I feel your tongue on my rim and your fingers in my ass.”

Dean hums his approval and dips his tongue in deep, works it against the walls of Sam’s ass as his fingers rub and search.

“Oh god, okay, the sun’s –oh shit Dean – the sun’s high and there are birds flying and your _fucking mouth_.”

He can only take so much. Sam’s breaking down, hands gripping the trunk and trying to hold him up as he thrusts backwards onto Dean’s tongue and fingers. He’s losing coherency, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s just about ready. He pulls back just long enough to spit into his free hand and spread it over his cock before he dives his tongue back in.

“Dean, Dean please, I’m ready. Fuck please I’m ready.”

He stands, lifts himself onto the trunk, and then leads Sam up and onto his lap. The steel groans a bit, but Dean is too into the moment to worry about that. If they dent anything he can pop it back out, but he knows from countless nights of drinking under the stars that the solid construction can handle both of their weight, albeit more spaced out.

“Come here Sam. You know what you want.”

And Sam nods, eyes dark and eager, before he climbs onto Dean lap and reaches back to angle Dean’s dick just right. He slides down slow and careful, hissing at the stretch and friction, before he’s fully seated and Dean’s wrapped in the tight heat of him.

“Fuck. Fuck Dean.”

“Yeah.” He lifts Sam a bit and his brother gets the hint and starts to move. Between Sam riding him and Dean thrusting upwards they find a rhythm and a comfortable position.

“Sam. Sam look at me.”

Hazy eyes leave the wheat swaying around them and land on Dean’s face. Sam’s mouth breaks open on a moan when Dean pegs his prostate, and big hands grip his shoulders tight. Dean squeezes Sam’s hips back, leans in and shares his brother’s taste with him before pulling back just enough to speak against Sam’s mouth.

“You’re safe okay? Any time you start losing it, the walls close in on you, you’re safe. You’re here little brother, me buried in you and all this space. Can’t you see all the space?”

“Ye – yeah, yes, Dean, so fucking close.”

“I know you are. I am too. You tell me you can remember that though. Tell me you can file this – fuck you’re tight – file this away and call it up any time the walls start closing in on you. Can you do that Sammy?”

Sam nods, desperate, ass flexing tightly and hips stuttering, and Dean wraps one hand around Sam’s cock and tugs tight, twists at the head, and watches as Sam jerks and spasms on his cock. Keeps eye contact the whole time as Sam’s mouth opens and his eyes widen helplessly. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever fucking seen.

The pulse of Sam’s ass milks his own orgasm out of him, and Dean reflexively crushes Sam close as he thrusts deep and comes in Sam’s ass.

Afterwards they stay that way for a bit until Dean can’t handle it anymore.

“My legs are going numb.”

It’s not romantic, not sweet, but Sam laughs breathlessly and then slides off of Dean awkwardly before collapsing backwards next to him on the warm metal.

“What – where the fuck did that come from Dean?”

He almost doesn’t answer. Considers it for a long time before turning to see Sam’s big eyes, flushed face, and the hint of a smile playing at the edge of lips that have been down-turned and tight for too long.

“Dr. Phil said that sometimes if a person has a happy memory to pull up in times of stress it helps them cope with traumatic memories.”

Sam’s mouth opens wordlessly, and then he starts to laugh.

“Shut the fuck up.”

But he’s smiling, unable to stop as Sam laughs and laughs, body glistening with drying come and stretched out smooth and whole on the Impala. Dean’s whole world is covered in sunshine and warmth, and that feels pretty damn good.

“I knew you watched Oprah.”  



End file.
